The Music Note
by Theater Raven
Summary: A Phantom of the Paradise one shot. Winslow had a final message for Phoenix before he died and she is filled with guilt.


**The Music Note**

It was her fault that he was dead, and the more she tried to tell herself to muster the courage to unlock it, the more she wanted to pull away from the locked drawer. Nothing else was in that desk drawer. It had stayed locked for a year. She just couldn't bring herself to read whatever it was that was written on that scrap of paper.

Tonight was the first anniversary of his death and the weather seemed to know it. Rain pelted the window and lightening cracked in the sky. Phoenix shivered in her nightgown and glanced out at the darkened sky. It seemed as though he was watching her. She tried not to remember what had happened, but the memories overpowered her…

"Winslow," she whispered as he jerked in pain one last time before lying still.

The crowds around her seemed not to notice that two people were dead; perhaps they thought it was scripted, a special effect, just part of the show. The drug-induced fog she was in seemed to clear as she looked down at him. His eyes were staring, his mouth opened in a frozen expression of pain. Kneeling down beside him, she gently rolled him over onto his back, tears spilling out of her eyes as she looked at the fatal wound.

Blood thick as ketchup flowed onto the stage and Phoenix felt its heat as some dripped onto her hands. Horrified, she pulled them back. Her hands _were_ stained with his blood—not just physically—and she could never wash them. An entire ocean couldn't rid her of the blood—if she dipped her hands in the sea, the ocean would surely turn crimson…by this time, stagehands were out and the crowd was quieting…Phoenix felt light-headed…she heard the wails of a police siren…

When she came to, she was sitting in a chair in a room with starch white walls. Several of the company—cast and crew—were sitting nearby, as well as a few newspaper reporters. She sat up and rubbed her head.

"Where am I?"

One of the reporters looked over.

"Medical examination office," he said, "They're performing the autopsy on Mr. Leach."

Phoenix jolted up in her chair.

The coroner and several others emerged from a room.

"Cause of death was a gaping chest wound," said the coroner, "Went straight to the heart. Funny thing is, it looked as though it reopened, and judging by it, it's a wonder it didn't instantly kill him—by all medical reasoning, it should have."

Phoenix stood in a daze. How had he gotten that wound?

The reporters were jotting down on their notepads and all the others solemnly filing out when the coroner spoke again.

"Is there anyone here by the name of Phoenix?"

Phoenix felt her heart stop for a beat, then, continue again at a thundering pace. She rose from her chair and stepped forward. The coroner handed her a plastic baggie with a piece of paper in it.

"I found this in his pocket," he said, "It has your name on it. I didn't read it—I figured, whatever it was, he would want only you to see it."

Phoenix looked, and indeed, written across what appeared to be a piece of musical score, was the name _Phoenix._

"Thank you, Dr. O'Malley," she said, glancing at the coroner's nametag.

"Anytime," he said, laying a comforting hand on her shoulder.

Phoenix walked towards the lobby. As she reached the front doors, sunlight streaming through them with a golden intensity a fellow cast member caught up with her and Phoenix recognized her as one of the dancers.

"Look, this has been rough on all of us, Phoenix, and it's going to get rougher. Swan had us all…under some sort of a spell, y'know? With him gone, who knows what'll happen."

"What about the Paradise?" Phoenix asked.

"Are you insane? Three deaths there! No way anyone in their right mind will come back now. The Paradise is history."

"But—where will we all work?"

"Hey, I said times are getting rough, okay? If we all check the want ads, we're bound to find something. Good luck, though."

The dancer gave her colleague and friend a weary smile, then left, and Phoenix hurried home and locked the bag in her desk drawer.

Phoenix jumped as the deep voice of thunder rolled through the sky and lightening speared down to the earth. If she never unlocked the drawer, it would torture her until she died. With a trembling hand, she fitted the key in the lock, turned it, and slid open the drawer. The inside of the drawer was coated with dust, but the bag was as dust-free as if she had placed it there yesterday. It seemed as if time stood still for it. She took out the paper and unfolded it, gasping when she realized it was the score for the song she was to audition with years ago, the song that had brought them their first meeting—tears filled her eyes and she turned the paper over, finding the back filled with Winslow's neat handwriting:

_I am home after my unsuccessful attempt at ending my agony, the storm is still raging outside—lightening, thunder, miserable, weeping rain, the wound is still bleeding but it won't kill me—yet, anyway—Swan said the contract expires when he does, but I'm starting to think he is some sort of immortal fiend who can never die…. as long as I'm still alive, I might as well write this down._

_I know that you, Phoenix, or whoever reads this, might think that this is just some dream, concocted out of a drug-fogged mind, or some sort of forgery, but I do not care. I assure you that I am me and my mind is free of all influences._

_You didn't understand what I said up on the roof…. perhaps the sound of my voice frightened you and you couldn't think clearly. Perhaps written words will help you understand. I never meant to scare you, Phoenix—I panicked—can you blame me, really? What would you do if the only person you've ever loved, and the last thing you have worth living for, was about to be taken away? My heart was already broken anyway when you ran from me, so when my hand thrust the knife into it, I felt no pain._

Phoenix had to set the paper down at this point. Tears flowed from her eyes and she didn't want to drip them on the page. She looked out the window. Had the storm been just like this one? Guilt consumed her—he had tried to end his life because of her….and that wound had caused his death…..it was all her fault; there was no one else to blame. Wiping her eyes, she read on:

_It didn't start just tonight, though. I knew you could go far the minute I first heard you. Swan stole my work and framed me for drug possession. I was sent to Sing Sing, and while escaping, was disfigured when l got trapped in a record press. Since then, I'd been trying to set things right—for both of us, Phoenix—but Swan swindled me again. If you learn anything from me, don't trust him._

_I've worked on_ Faust_ for so long, Phoenix. I barely ate so that those at the top might eat well—I lived poorly so that those at the top might live like kings. It's an unfair trade, show business—a few survive at others' expenses. After a while, you get to a point where you'll do anything—anything for bread in your mouth and a place to sleep. You become beaten down, weak, ready to sign your name in blood, even, as I did. I watched my fellow starving artists sign their lives, their honor, their morals away to the fat cats on top, who took sheer delight in their exploitation—it wasn't long before they came for me._

_I know I've signed my soul away and when I die, I'll burn. Every inch of me will shrivel in flames, every last bit, save one. It seems ironic my life should end in such a terrible way, but I did it for you, and know that even though I only spoke to you twice, even though I might never see you again or share life's ups and downs, joys and sorrows, hopes and hurts with you, though I might never hold your hand or hug you or kiss you, though you will outlive me and maybe my name will be lost in the sands of time, though I may never get to say this to you aloud, Phoenix, I love you. I'm ready to face the consequences in the afterlife because I've found one joy here—and it is what I feel for you, how much I love you. So don't pity me or cry tears of sorrow when I'm gone—if my life must be short, I'd rather it be short than live to be an old man without having met you. I am ready for death, ready to face it, let it claim me. If, by some miracle, God lets me into His paradise, I will await your coming…All I ask of you is to remember me as how you knew me, not as the lifeless corpse you will most likely see, the cold, empty shell that will be your last glimpse of me, but remember me as I was._

_I love you._

—Winslow 

She found a picture of him—smiling, seated at a piano—thanks to an article that came out in the paper the next day telling of the anniversary of his death and what became of his _Faust_ since then—it had been christened as "The Modern_ Macbeth_" and had not been performed since the Paradise days.

Phoenix cut out the image. It couldn't convey more perfectly with how she had known him. She put it and the letter in a black frame and hung it above her desk. Now she would never forget.


End file.
